


Funeral Roses

by subtlegods



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Asexual Jughead Jones, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Murder TW, Pushing Daisies AU, death tw, quick mention of animal death tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtlegods/pseuds/subtlegods
Summary: Betty Cooper was exactly 21 years, 27 weeks, and 23 hours old. And not a minute older.The facts were these: Jughead Jones had never been like the other kids. Nor was he like anyone else either.  There had been a gift given him, but the gift had not come from anyone in particular. It came not in a box, without instructions, without a manufacturer’s warranty. It just was.JUGHEAD JONES COULD TOUCH THE DEAD AND BRING THEM BACK TO LIFE.





	1. PROLOGUE: The Facts Were These

**Author's Note:**

> This story features an asexual Jughead Jones, and takes place in the small town of Riverdale where everything is bleak and nothing is bright. The first chapter is really a prologue, though. It's context for the fic as it is an AU and happens five years after Jason's death.
> 
> It is also the first fan fiction I have ever written in my life --- hopefully, it won't be the last! I will appreciate any and all comments, as they will keep me going and keep telling me what to work on and how to work on it. Hopefully, you'll like this version of Bughead. Tell me what you think!
> 
> [PINTEREST BOARD](https://www.pinterest.com/girlgulf/original-funeral-roses/) / [PROJECT TUMBLR TAG](http://crownedjones.tumblr.com/tagged/project:%20Funeral%20Roses) / [SEND A MESSAGE ON TUMBLR](http://crownedjones.tumblr.com/ask)

The most wonderful of surprises always came when one least expected them. This was the point of the word _surprise_ : that one did not know what was coming. To search for a surprise was to ruin the suspense of it; to expect a gift was to ruin the presentation that it came in. Luckily for Jughead Jones, he’d learned to stop expecting at around eight years old. His father was a man of many words and even more promises, the kind that could make any child believe of the wonders that lurked in the corner. He could paint the entire world with an ugly shade of blue while claiming that beneath it was the loveliest shade of gold, and Jughead would believe him. Jughead would’ve sat there, day and night, waiting for the blue to come off so he could see all the gold his father had prepared for him.

Eventually, the paint did peel off. The paint _always_ did. But they never showed the gold promised behind them. Instead, all the tears in the walls that his father could not have been bothered to patch up. Instead, all the cracks that had hidden behind the ugly blue. Instead, all the unmet hopes and dreams of a boy who had been offered the world by his very own father. An apology came each time as the paint chipped, and by then, Jughead’s old man would have had a new bucket of a new ugly shade of paint. And Jughead, again, would believe him. He continued to believe him. In fact, he continued to until he was exactly seven years, thirty six weeks, and four hours old.

No child was ever ready for the break of reality that arrived when they realized that their parents were not heroes. Jughead, at twenty one, would even admit that he had not noticed the way his father had been failing him at a young age; and he, in the same breath, would be the first to tell anybody that he had been born seventy years old and perpetually tired. At seven years, thirty six weeks, four hours, and one minute, young Jughead Jones did not even know he had stopped believing in the man his father was. And, subsequently, in anything else that came after that.

Thus was why the surprise on his ninth year and twenty seventh week came as a _real_ surprise to Jughead Jones III. It arrived when his dog Deputy Dog was three years and two weeks old, in the form of a crack in the road that would keep Deputy Dog three years and two weeks old, not a minute older.

Until---

The facts were these: Jughead Jones had never been like the other kids. Nor was he like anyone else either. Sometimes, for reasons more than one. But, at nine years and twenty seven weeks, there had been a gift given him that would make him all the more different. The gift had not come from anyone in particular. It came not in a box, without instructions, without a manufacturer’s warranty. It _just_ was.

_Jughead Jones could touch the dead and bring them back to life._

The terms and conditions of this gift weren’t immediately clear, but they would not be of any immediate concern to the young boy who just got his dog back. All he could think about was his dog: a dog who had been breathing one moment, not breathing the next, and then breathing again. All he could think to do was to hug Deputy Dog, which was a proper response for any nine year old who loved his pet. Any nine year old would have gotten away with it. Any nine year old would have hugged their pet and walked home, then told the story of how they thought their pet was gone forever only to be proven wrong. The adults would laugh, shake their heads, and then tell the nine year old with the story to head to bed. And it would be just like nothing ever happened the next day.

But Jughead Jones had a gift, and this gift had a consequence. It was death as much as it was life. It took just as much as it gave. He knew this when Deputy Dog jumped into his open arms, and then stopped moving. Again. This time, it would be forever. There would be no turning it back. He knew this because he tried.

The beginning of grief would come to Jughead a day later, when the events that took place finally made sense to him. With it would come confusion. What happened _had_ happened. Jughead _did_ feel Deputy Dog transition from life to death, then death to life, then life to death. He _knew_ this. But what he didn’t understand was _how_ it could happen. And _why_.

But the facts were these: Jughead Jones was only nine years old, and he couldn’t really talk about it with anyone. So, he would go seven years without doing that. He would know the truth of what happened to Deputy Dog, but no one else would. Sometimes, he’d come close to telling Betty. Other times, Archie. But they were nine years old and growing up together. Nine years old, and growing into their own persons. And then, they weren’t nine years old anymore.

Seven years later, when Jughead Jones was sixteen years old but about twenty years older than how he looked, Jason Blossom’s death shocked the whole of Riverdale. Speculations would say it happened on the fourth of July, when Dilton Doiley and his scouts found Cheryl Blossom crying by the river’s edge. News afterwards would mention a gunshot, a bullet to the head, an autopsy that would prove all speculations false. What was certain was that fear became an ever present figure on the streets of Riverdale, a town that was supposed to be quiet and cozy but was never the same again.

Life never returned to the usual drag that it was, but two years down the line did make for enough time to attempt to be normal again. People moved on. Life moved on. Jason Blossom’s death was a scar on Riverdale’s history, and the way he died would never be forgotten. _Never._ There was a need to cope though, so people pushed the events to the back of their minds and tried to live life without fear of being the next dead body. Mayor McCoy would promise that no child of Riverdale would ever hurt, go missing, or suffer the same fate as Jason.

But two years later, on the fourth of July, Betty Cooper would disappear without a trace. She was eighteen years, two months, three weeks and twenty two hours old.


	2. Morning has Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Betty.” The name was a memory, a celebration of life and death and love. The weight of it filled the room, even though Jughead’s voice had been but a whisper. “I--- I’m sorry I lived the life we promised to spend together. If it’s any consolation, it wasn’t any fun.” A chuckle. “Can you imagine? I had to eat for two for the last three years because I kept thinking, _‘Okay, what if Betty comes home today and there isn’t any food for her on the table?’_ ” The joke fell flat as he stood over the body with silent tears down his cheeks, the flower from his chest on his sleeve, and the idea on his fingertips. 
> 
> Betty did not stare up at him. Her eyes were closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for all the comments on the prologue of this fic! Those really motivate me and keep me wanting to write! If you enjoy this one, please make sure to leave a comment below as well! If you think it needs any improving, don't be afraid to comment as well!
> 
> Also, as a disclaimer: I read the comics when I was very young, so I don't remember most of the details. This characters in this fic are very show based, at least from what we've been shown in the series. However, as it is set in the future, I've taken the liberties of patching things up with details the show has not yet presented.
> 
> Okay, that's it! As always, tell me what you think!
> 
> [PINTEREST BOARD](https://www.pinterest.com/girlgulf/original-funeral-roses/) / [PROJECT TUMBLR TAG](http://crownedjones.tumblr.com/tagged/project:%20Funeral%20Roses) / [SEND A MESSAGE ON TUMBLR](http://crownedjones.tumblr.com/ask)

_BREAKING: COOPER GIRL FOUND!_

These were the facts: one --- Jughead Jones woke up this particular morning feeling cold, so he had searched for the blanket with his hands, placed it over his body, and slept for another hour. Two --- waking up at noon was waking up too late. Three --- waking up too late always gave Jughead a headache. Four --- it was a Saturday. Five --- Saturdays were not usually so cold, but fall _was_ just around the corner. Six --- the cereal he had for breakfast was the same cereal he’d been having for the last five mornings. Seven --- it was, under all technicalities, a normal day. The cold wasn’t a warning sign, and the headache wasn’t an indication of what was to come. Eight --- Jughead Jones had never stopped thinking about Betty Cooper. Nine --- the thought of Betty Cooper greeted him that morning, as it did every morning. Ten --- the only difference was that it arrived like a single day of sun during a month of snow, and on the front page of The Register.

_BREAKING: COOPER GIRL FOUND!_

First came the warmth, crawling through the very vines of what made Jughead Jones up. It began at one point --- whether his heart or his mind, he could not tell ---, but that did not matter because all was basked in this warmth within a second. The summer Betty had gone missing had lived inside his chest for the last three years, but now it was being plucked like a flower _finally_ ready for its place in a bouquet. When hope had ripened, one had to pluck it. Settle it down. Put it to rest, and allow it to bloom in a different manner. There had been every inkling in Jughead that Betty was gone, but love had turned the boy that he used to be into a man. And with love, he learned that one hoped --- that one _had_ to hope. Even against all odds.

_BREAKING: COOPER GIRL FOUND!_

Then came the pause. A long pause. Jughead’s gaze traveled over the words on the page, now with the flower from his chest on his sleeve. Let it be known, though: Jughead Jones had only placed anything on his sleeve _twice_ because he had long learned the world would only take advantage of it. The first time was his heart when he climbed up into Betty’s room through her window and placed a kiss on her lips. He had promptly kept his heart where it was for her to see and to hold, because he’d trusted her enough not to tear it from him. For two years, it remained. When she went missing, he kept it. There was no use in keeping it there for everyone to see, when the only person who should’ve seen the way it heaved with grief was the person it was grieving for.

_BREAKING: COOPER GIRL FOUND!_

Last came the chill. It was this cold, cold feeling that Jughead knew began in the pit of his stomach, then travelled throughout his entire body like a flame that would not die. Except, it was cold like death. Except, it _was_ death. And death, as Jughead had realized long before he was even ten, was like replacing everything in one’s body with a winter so cold that nothing would shake it out. He thought the summer that he’d nurtured in his chest along with the hope that Betty might still be alive was being rewarded. Instead, it was being taken away from him with the truth that he knew so well: one could only hope and expect long enough. After a certain time, even the most beautiful of flowers wilted. Anyone who hoped long enough would live to watch their hopes turn into nothing but thorns.

_At six in the morning today, Betty Cooper’s body was found floating on the north side of Sweetwater River of Riverdale. Cooper has been missing for three years, and has only now turned up. Reports say that the death is unlikely an accident, but that it certainly looks like one._

There wasn’t much to hope for in the beginning. No one disappeared out of thin air, then showed back up without it being a commotion in the small town of Riverdale. The only hope was that Betty would show up alive. Nothing else mattered. Not to Jughead, at least. The rest of the world around him whispered about how they hoped she would turn up so they could find whoever was terrorizing the town, but Jughead knew that that was too much to ask for. He’d planted one seed in his heart --- and even _this_ had been crushed.

_BREAKING: COOPER GIRL FOUND!_

Jughead read the words again.

_BREAKING: COOPER GIRL FOUND!_

And again.

_BREAKING: COOPER GIRL FOUND!_

And again.

_BREAKING: COOPER GIRL FOUND!_

_Found dead,_ he thought to himself. _Cooper girl found **dead**._

The days would pass with only this on his mind. There would be morning. There would be night. Neither lasted long enough; the next one was always just around the corner. The only constant in this was Jughead Jones who moved only to relieve himself, but then returned to whatever comfortable position he could find. _Tick._ Food was not an option for him. _Tock._ Answering calls meant actually being able to converse. _Tick._ Was this what death felt like? _Tock._ He hadn’t tried death before, but he figured now was as good a chance as any. _Tick._ Tock. Tick. Tock. _Tick._

Exactly three days, twelve hours, and forty seven minutes passed before Jughead Jones picked himself up and dressed in black. It took fifteen minutes for him to drag himself to the Cooper home. It took less than a minute inside the house --- a house filled with people he used to know, and some he even used to call _friends_ \--- for the memories to rush back.

However, it took all three days, thirteen hours, and one minute for Jughead to reject the thought that once more began to haunt him since he’d read the article on Betty’s death. It took a hundred percent of him to reject himself and the thought that had haunted him since he was nine. The thought of---

Alice Cooper got up in front of everyone and announced that the ceremony would begin in no more than thirty minutes.

At some point through all the waiting time, Archie Andrews came up to Jughead with apologies on his lips and the word _condolence_ etched in his gaze. He said something. More than one thing. _Sorry_ resounded in Jughead’s ears too many times. Sometimes, silence pondered between them. Archie made sure to cover those up with more apologies. At one point, he might have even brought up how certain he was that Betty loved Jughead with all her heart --- as if _Jughead_ needed reminding from _Archie_. Jughead remembered frowning at this, though the rest of the conversation went by like a blur. If anyone would consider Archie Andrews rattling every song lyric that his heart knew how to sing to a certain Jughead Jones who could not even so much as look at him a conversation, that is.

Jughead looked at the watch on his left wrist; he excused himself from Archie to see Betty in the other room before the ceremony began.

The world around him seemed to shrink as he made his way into the room. Archie became an orange blur, next to him was Veronica who was a much darker one. Cheryl, red. Polly Cooper, a dulled beam of light like all the ones that Jughead used to squint his eyes just to look at. The rest of those in the room were strangers, but they became stranger then, in that moment. But every pair of eyes was on him. They were remembering him for the love he had for Betty, for all the love Betty had for him, and for how the world tore it from the both of them on that summer that Betty Cooper went missing. Hushed whispers filled the room, which said something for the moment because this was _the_ moment that Jughead knew he was supposed to cry. He hadn’t allowed himself to since he’d read the news. The truth was that he hadn’t allowed himself to since the fourth of July.

And yet, none of this mattered to him. Not any one of the stares sent in Jughead’s direction fazed him. He entered the room with the casket, the room with the body, the room with the Cooper girl they found, the love of his life; he closed the door behind him.

He told himself not to cry, even then. The thing about tears was that it did not listen. It never did.

“Betty.” The name was a memory, a celebration of life and death and love. The weight of it filled the room, even though Jughead’s voice had been but a whisper. “I--- I’m sorry I lived the life we promised to spend together. If it’s any consolation, it wasn’t any fun.” A chuckle. “Can you imagine? I had to eat for two for the last three years because I kept thinking, _‘Okay, what if Betty comes home today and there isn’t any food for her on the table?’”_ The joke fell flat as he stood over the body with silent tears down his cheeks, the flower from his chest on his sleeve, and _the_ idea on his fingertips.

Betty did not stare up at him. Her eyes were closed.

There came moments in one’s life when they had to make a decision. Not decisions on what to have for breakfast, or what to wear, or where to spend the afternoon. Rather, decisions that would change their life --- and, subsequently, everyone else’s. These decisions were the ones people looked at in thirty years’ time and said, “I should’ve done something else.” These decisions were the ones people would regret ---- either for making or _not_ making.

When Jughead Jones looked into his life thirty years down the line, he wanted to see Betty in it. He knew regret; it was his only friend, only companion. Regret would come either way. Regret would remain to be in his life, whatever he chose. If _that_ was going to be the case, he might as well choose Betty.

Betty Cooper was exactly 21 years, 27 weeks, and 23 hours old. And not a minute older.

Until Jughead Jones placed a fingertip to her cheek.

_Oh no._

The initial reaction from Jughead Jones was to step back from Betty Cooper who sat up in her casket. Guilt would come second, and when it did, it filled him up with ease. All he had ever been was _selfish_ , and _nothing_ felt truer at the moment.

The dead girl risen to life, on the other hand, sat up in her casket as though she were merely getting up from bed. The distinct memory of dying was there, but she could only believe it to be a dream. After all, she was alive. She was alive, and---

“Jug!” This name was a memory, a celebration of life and death and love. It lingered in the room, between the dead girl and the guy who raised her back to life. Betty said Jughead’s name with thick surprise, though; she said it with disbelief, with shock. The surprise faded though; all of it would. All would be replaced by a deep-rooted kind of sadness. “ _Jug._ ” She said his name again. This time, it was heavy in its single syllable. “I---”

_Selfish_ might have been the only word to ever describe Jughead after this moment. _Selfish_ would be the only name anyone would ever call him. But Betty was _here_ , with him. Betty was _here_ , with his name on her lips. Betty was _alive_ , and his heart had longed for _so long._ Betty was _here_ and _alive_ while she was at it.

The consequences of what he’d done would sink in in a few minutes, but for now the big casket in the room was the topic at hand. Betty would realize it first.

“Why--- Why am I--- Why am I in a casket? Why am I here? Wait---” Betty Cooper asked the questions in disbelief. The sadness in her voice had remained, but it sounded like it had been pushed to the back of Betty’s throat. For later. She attempted to move out of the casket before saying anything else.

Jughead stood there, still in disbelief that this was really Betty in front of him. It took a beat for him to reply. “It’s--- a long story.” And it _was_. Jughead looked at the watch on his wrist. There were only four minutes and thirty seconds until the ceremony. He had to think --- _quick._ “We have to go, Betts.”

She’d climbed out of the casket now, and was the one looking at Jughead in disbelief. “What? Why? Where?”

“It’s--- a long story.” This was all Jughead could say, and he knew for a fact that it was not enough. Each second that passed, however, was a clear line of anxiety etched on his face. “I’ll explain later.”

He looked at his watch. Four minutes and eight seconds. Seven, six, five, four. One second. Three minutes.

Outside, there was a collective gasp as a loud _thud!_ took place.

Betty saw how Jughead almost waited for it, how his mouth moved in count of the seconds that took place in between them, how his face coiled into fear as the seconds ticked down to the last one, how it was almost _inevitable_. Something in the back of her mind said all this should’ve scared her. But Betty Cooper looked at Jughead Jones in that moment for every aching breath of anxiety he had, and she feared nothing about him. The commotion outside got louder and louder by the second, but she only stepped closer towards Jughead through it. The silence in their room was too quiet for the outside. She may have been afraid, but it was not Jughead that she feared. “ _Jug_ ,” she said, promptly pushing Jughead out of the bubble he had been in, the fear in her voice evident with the single word, “what’s happening?”

The question was asking for the reality that Jughead had placed himself and Betty in. It was also one that Jughead couldn’t answer just yet. “It’s---”

“--- a long story,” they completed together.

_A long story_ meant: Jughead Jones had traded the life of another for Betty’s. After all, he had never been given a gift that did not come with a consequence. The immediate one he’d found out about when he was nine was that the first touch brought life, while the second brought death. The years of his life would show him another: that a minute risen was a minute too much, and so another life of the same value had to be taken away. A flower for a flower. An animal for an animal. A human for a human. A life for a life.

Death was everywhere --- except for the casket it was supposed to lie on.

“But we have to go,” he continued. “We _really_ have to.”

A deep breath escaped Betty as she finally came to accept that no explanation would come of this moment. Instead of further prodding, she said, “Well, we can’t walk out of this haunted house when everyone’s waiting outside that door.” She trusted Jughead enough to understand that none of this made sense; she trusted him enough to make sense of it later. Even then, the last place she wanted to be in was her childhood home. The last face she wanted to see was her mother’s.

“Window,” Jughead replied. “We’ll take the window.”

Betty gave a simple nod of her head before climbing down the window one careful step at a time. Jughead went after her, landed beside her softly, and did not know what to do next.

The seconds ticked. Ticked. Ticked. Tocked. To Jughead, the moment felt exactly like the world was caving in on him. His chest heaved. His eyes searched for something --- _anything_. There was nothing but a few cars lined up on the street.

“Betty,” Jughead said, “I’ll explain everything in the car, I promise. But first, we need a car.” He gestured to the line of them.

She looked at him with a furrow of confusion on her face, but Betty nonetheless walked towards the cars. “This is getting more and more confusing by the moment,” she said, “but we should have a nice car while we’re at it. I hope you have a _really_ good explanation.”

As Betty began to bust the door of the nicest car open, Jughead looked around and made sure no one could see them. “I just prefer you alive,” he said, “I prefer you _not_ dead.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, you kind of----”

Betty Cooper always pushed through. She stuck to her word, no matter what happened. She _was_ Betty Cooper; that was just who she was. And so, the driver’s door did break open. There was little that she understood about the moment, but she picked open the car door open because she said she would. Because she trusted Jughead would make sense of this. Because she loved him, even after all these years. But also because a part of her wanted an out, too. Because a part of her wanted to be anywhere but her childhood home. Just as the car door opened, a scream from the Cooper house emerged and filled the entire street.

The scream belonged to Alice Cooper.

“Was that---”

“Yes.”

“ _Oh, god._ ” She jumped into the car and unlocked the passenger door from the inside for Jughead. “We have to go.”

Jughead didn’t contest this. He said, “I think I know a place. I also don’t think we can come back here.”

“Okay,” Betty said. She was Betty Cooper, so she agreed. She was the same Betty Cooper that Jughead knew, but she was also a little bit different. The last three years had changed her. “So, where are we going?”

All it took was one look at her in that moment. One look at Betty Cooper, the girl Jughead had loved since he was ten years old. One look at Betty Cooper in the clothes she’d been wearing in her casket, with her hair half-up. One look at Betty Cooper and the determination on her features. One look at Betty Cooper and the difference that the last three years had made. One look at Betty Cooper and the familiarity of all the years Jughead had been missing. All it took was one look at Betty Cooper for Jughead Jones to know that this was the _right_ thing. Or, well, _most possibly_ the right thing in this situation.

“My mom and Jellybean live three towns away, up north. We can go there.” A pause. “But first, we have to drop by my place, get a few things.” He almost reached to hold her arm; he stopped himself. “If that’s okay, I mean.”


End file.
